


Next Year

by ackermom



Series: What the Water Gave Us [2]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1950s, F/F, Fluff, M/M, Smoking, lesbians are the only true gay ally
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-30
Updated: 2017-12-30
Packaged: 2019-02-19 15:31:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13126596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ackermom/pseuds/ackermom
Summary: New Year's Eve, 1957. Elvis croons from the jukebox. They drink their way through a pot of black coffee without speaking a word, and then they sit, waiting for the night to end. Historia leaves three times to touch up her lipstick in the bathroom, but Bertholdt knows that it's just her way of distracting herself. He's learned a lot about her and Ymir in the short years since high school.





	Next Year

**Author's Note:**

> naughty authors write alternate endings to atone for their sins

The stiff wind catches Bertholdt by surprise when he stumbles off the bus. The air slaps him across the face with a flurry of frost. For a moment, it is all Bertholdt feels as he wipes the tiny snowflakes from his cheeks and feels his fingers turning red. He shoves one hand into his jacket pocket and uses his other hand to pull his duffel bag closer to his body. But he barely has the strap over his shoulder before the rest of the bus passengers surge forward into the crowd, and then suddenly he is lost in a sea of holiday travelers who rush urgently through the terminal as a voice overhead announces departures and arrivals. People scurry back and forth, some shielding themselves from the unexpected snowstorm, others barreling forward without a thought.

Bertholdt stands a head over the crowd. When he sees the neon exit sign flickering on the other side of the terminal, he tucks his bag to his chest and starts pushing through the crowd, muttering an  _excuse me_ that no one can hear over the ruckus. His uniform causes people to take notice of his efforts, and eventually he emerges into the bus station. The squeaky white indoors is significantly less crowded. He breathes in the quiet. Families are lined up and down the ticket booths, with wired children close at their sides. The year's hit tuns sing from a square radio near the front door, and Bertholdt trudges towards a seat to the bubbly tunes of Paul Anka. He collapses into the plastic chair. His duffel bags hits the ground with a thud, and he blinks into the fluorescent lights, yawning. 

His gaze wanders to the departure board. There are buses running to Charlotte all night. He could catch a line to Asheville tomorrow morning and forget about all of this.

He considers it. But he can feel Historia's letter tucked into the breast pocket of his jacket, poking at his ribcage, and he knows that he is already resigned to his decision. And, well, as tired as he is, he would never forgive himself if he missed this opportunity. This is one promise he can keep. With a sigh, he stands, heaves his bag over his shoulder, and leaves the station. 

When he emerges onto the street, the noise hits him like a bomb. He stands on the sidewalk, frozen, before he realizes that the road has been blocked off for New Year's Eve celebrations. People line the streets, packed shoulder to shoulder, waving streamers and dancing in lines through the crowd. Bertholdt rubs his eyes. Great.

He doesn't know where he's going, but he picks a direction and sticks to it, figuring that the least he can do right now is get out of the crowd. Then he'll find a local and ask about the address that Historia sent him. He pushes through the crowd. His bag is tucked tightly across his chest and he holds onto his cap to keep it from getting blown away in the winter wind. Some of the partiers dip out of his way when they see him. Bertholdt says nothing. He presses forward until he stumbles out of the crowd and rounds a corner, entering a quiet street, away from the festivities. 

It is another few minutes before he finds someone who recognizes the address he was given. Then he has to reroute for a few blocks, walking in what he thinks is the right direction, avoiding the streets full of celebrations, until finally he sees a glowing neon sign at the end of the street and knows he is in the right place.  _Harry's Diner_ illuminates the sidewalk with a pink blow, in stark juxtaposition to the glittering white holiday lights on the other city buildings. Bertholdt has never been so relieved to see a greasy diner, and he makes his way down the street eagerly, finally able to breathe again. 

The relief does not last long. He pauses suddenly outside the diner, his hand already raised to open the door. Historia had not promised anything in her letter; in fact, she made it abundantly clear that nothing was guaranteed. And yet...

He swallows. He'll never know if he stays out here. He pushes in the door and steps into the diner. 

The diner is quiet and nearly empty. A few lone patrons sit at the bar, tended to by a tired waitress with a pencil tucked behind her ear. The jukebox in the corner bubbles out "Peggy Sue," the drumbeat humming low through the room. Bertholdt glances around, anxious, but it takes him less than a second to find who he is looking for. They are the only patrons sitting in a booth, and they stick out like sore thumbs, crammed onto one side of the table. He starts their way, and he barely gets two paces before they look up. 

Historia gasps when she sees him: out of shock or perhaps joy. Bertholdt is not sure, although he doubts the latter. No matter, she slides out of the booth in an instant, gracefully leaping to her feet in a pair of tall black heels. Ymir follows her, a grin passing over her face as Bertholdt approaches. If he was not sure that it was them before, then he is now. Ymir and Historia have really outdone themselves with their outfits this year, and they're even wearing matching navy sweaters. Ymir has tucked her turtleneck into the rattiest pair of jeans Bertholdt has ever seen on a person, while Historia looks like an angel whose pearl earrigns shimmer when she moves her head. 

Her heels click against the greasy diner floor as she bounds towards Bertholdt, and when she hugs him, her skirt poofs out like a balloon.

"You're so skinny!" she exclaims when she pulls back. "You're like a stick."

"Like a beanstalk," Ymir says. She stands behind Historia, sizing him up. "What are they feeding you over there?" 

"Nice to see you, too," Bertholdt exclaims. 

"Oh, sorry," Historia says. She pushes her hair back over her shoulders and smiles. "You look so different. So grown up!"

Bertholdt shifts under her gaze. "Well, it's been a few years."

Historia reaches for his bag. "Put that down. Come on, let's sit."

She takes the duffel bag with surprising ease and dumps it unceremoniously onto the black-and-white tile floor, before sliding back into the booth and gesturing for them to follow. Ymir cuts before Bertholdt and sits down next to Historia. He glances around at the quiet diner before sitting down across from them. 

"You look like shit," Ymir says as soon as he does.

Bertholdt stares at the blue-gold checkered headscarf wrapped in her short hair. "Nice ribbon."

Ymir scoffs. "It keeps hair out of my eyes," she mutters.

"Take your jacket off," Historia commands as the lone waitress in the diner saunters over with a pot of hot coffee. "God, you look uncomfortable." 

He  _is_ uncomfortable, but he's not going to give them the satisfaction of saying that out loud. He tucks his cap and jacket neatly into the corner of the booth. The waitress slides the coffee pot onto the table and produces a notepad from her apron pocket.

"Y'all ready to order now?" she drawls.

"Not yet," Ymir says. "Give this idiot a chance to look at the menu."

The waitress rolls her eyes and strolls away. 

"How long have you been sitting here?" Bertholdt asks. He glances out the window. The snow is still coming down, but it is heavier now. The streets are getting empty as the night gets late. 

"Not that long," Ymir mutters. "Just an hour or so."

"We didn't want to miss you," Historia says. "So we got here early." 

"I can't believe this place is open on New Year's Eve," Bertholdt says. He picks up a menu and immediately sets it down again when his fingers stick to it. "Is that why we're meeting here?"

"Sure," Ymir says, then pops her gum. She pours two cups of coffee, then slings the pot across the table to Bertholdt. "Mostly it's just convenient for us." 

"It's the best diner downtown," Historia says. "There's not a lot else for proper young ladies to do in the city, so everyone from school comes here. It's really popular." 

It doesn't seem popular tonight. In fact, the diner is nearly empty. Their table in particular receives a lot of glances from the patrons sitting at the counter: Bertholdt still in uniform, Ymir wearing (god forbid) jeans in public, and Historia with her curls and pearls. They are certainly an odd crowd. Historia carefully stirs cream into her coffee as Ymir spits her gum into a napkin and throws it into the corner of the booth. 

"Ymir," Historia says without looking. "Please."

Ymir smirks at Bertholdt as she dumps a copious amount of sugar into her coffee. "All the girls got jealous when they heard we were having dinner with GI Joe."

"Tell them they can keep their jealousy," Bertholdt mutters. He pours himself a cup of coffee, grimacing. He has tried desperately to be one of those soldiers that can stomach black coffee, but there is a tin of sugar in front of him now, and, well, it'll be his present to himself. 

"You got a little cheeky, didn't you?" Ymir exclaims. She grins. "Good, you needed a personality." 

The waitress returns, determined this time to get their orders. Historia and Ymir ask for their usual dishes. Bertholdt is not hungry, but he doesn't know when he'll get the chance to eat again, so he orders a sandwich that will be easy to wrap up and eat later. Ymir refills their coffee cups as the waitress scribbles their orders down. Bertholdt finishes his second cup of coffee almost instantly, just to do something other than fidget. When the waitress leaves, the silence that falls over the table is unbearable. Bertholdt is dying to ask what Historia and Ymir have heard, and he can see on Historia's face that she has something to say. But he pushes the thought back down, too anxious to face the possible answers he might get. When he sees Historia opening her mouth to speak, he cuts her off.

"How is college?" Bertholdt blurts out. His hands are wrapped tightly around his empty coffee cup.

Historia falters, looking surprised. "Oh," she says. "It's good. I've learned a lot."

"It's the worst," Ymir mutters.

"She's just complaining because we have to take homemaking classes," Historia says. She glances sideways at Ymir. "It's a women's college. What did you expect?"

"I expected something other than dinner party etiquette," Ymir exclaims. "Or at least something a little more exciting. Isn't the point of college to expand my horizons?" 

"I think the point of college is to get a degree," Bertholdt says. 

Historia's gaze settles on him, and suddenly he is sorry for speaking. He knows what she is thinking, what they are all thinking. He could always feel it in her letters. She wrote only about the most mundane things: the weather in Atlanta, the popular songs on the radio, the most recent fashion trends and how much Ymir hated them. Her stateside opinions on politics were the only interesting points of conversation in her letters, but even that topic was limited. She never wrote of college. She never wrote of their friends. He supposes that they are only her friends now.

"Yes," she says, watching Bertholdt. She purses her lips. "I think it is."

She barely pauses before continuing. "Look, Bertholdt, I want to say, before it gets too late-"

"You don't have to explain," Bertholdt says instantly. "I understand."

Historia holds up a finger to silence him. "Before it gets too late," she continues, "I want to say that I'm sorry for dragging you all the way out here. I know that you just got back stateside and this was a lot to ask, but I figured it would be worth it. And I hope it is, but..."

She trails off. 

"But we haven't heard anything," Ymir says, jumping in. She dumps some more sugar in her coffee. "So we're not promising anything."

"I know," Bertholdt says. He can't look them in the eyes, so he stares into his cup and watches the fluorescent lights dance in his coffee. "I'm not blaming either of you."

"The last I heard," Historia starts. She drops her voice when the waitress comes by to slide their plates onto the table. "Well, the last time he wrote, he said he would do his best to be here tonight. But I don't know what that means, really."

"It means he's banking on the army," Bertholdt says. "He's right. There's no way to know for certain."

"So he might not be coming," Ymir says, unfurling her silverware.

Bertholdt purses his lips and glances out the window. "I suppose there's nothing I can do except wait and see." 

Elvis croons from the jukebox. By the time their plates have been cleared, they must have listened to "Blue Christmas" a dozen times. Eventually, Ymir turns around and scowls at the lone man sitting near the jukebox, feeding it coins. He leaves in a slump, his meal nearly untouched, and the diner sits in long, lonely silence for a while. Bertholdt finally gets up and slips in a quarter for three songs: no Elvis, no Buddy Holly, and no more Christmas music. They drink their way through another pot of black coffee, hardly speaking a word to each other in the uncomfortable, waiting silence. Historia leaves three times to touch up her lipstick in the bathroom, and each time she comes back with her hair sitting on her shoulders in a slightly different fashion. Bertholdt knows that fussing is just her way of distracting herself. They were the last people he expected to befriend, but when Historia found out that he was serving in the army as part of his parole, she insisted that they keep in touch. 

"I wouldn't know what to write," Bertholdt had said over the phone on a cold night in November. 

"Write anything," Historia had said. Her voice crackled over the line, but he was grateful to hear someone familiar, someone at all. "Write about anything. My uncle served in Europe, and he always said the best thing he ever did was keep a journal, just to get the thoughts out."

"Then shouldn't I keep a journal?"

"If you want to," Historia had said. "But I think it would help if you knew that there was someone on the other end. And, you know..."

She had trailed off then, and Bertholdt had stood in silence for a moment, wondering if the call had been dropped.

"You don't have to write to me," Historia had said finally. "Send your letters to me, but... you can address them to someone else."

She had paused before continuing. 

"Ymir and I will make sure they get to him," she had said. 

Bertholdt had turned his face to the ground, holding back tears. "Thank you," he had said softly.

At some point, the night grows softer, quieter, and soon the diner empties out, until they are the only patrons left, sipping on their last pot of coffee. The waitress disappears into the kitchen, and the soda jerk comes sauntering up to their table with a wet rag in his hands.

"Alright, kids," he says. "We're closing shop for New Year's Eve. You don't have to go home, but you can't stay here."

He barely looks old enough to be working, with two jutted front teeth and a smattering of pimples across his round face, but he calls them  _kids_ with such authority. He straightens up with a fright when he sees Bertholdt's uniform.

"No disrespect, sir," he stutters. 

Bertholdt says nothing.

Ymir drains her coffee cup and pushes it out of the way. "It looks like you've been stood up," she says. 

The soda jerk smiles sadly at Historia, but Ymir is looking at Bertholdt. 

Snowflakes catch on their eyelashes when they finally stumble outside and the diner door swings shut behind them with a ring of its bell. Ymir whips out a cigarette; she offers one to Bertholdt, but he refuses it. The diner's neon sign casts its pink glow down on them, and standing there, beneath the harsh light, it does not feel like a new year to Bertholdt.

"I guess I'll head out," he says, breaking into Historia and Ymir's conversation. They glance up at him through the hazy mixture of snowflakes and cigarette smoke.

"What?" Ymir says, blowing out a puff.

Bertholdt shrugs. "I thought about taking an overnight bus to Charlotte," he says. "But I've probably missed the last one. I should go so I can find a motel before-"

"Don't be stupid," Historia says. She produces a pair of white gloves from her coat pocket and starts tugging them on. "You're staying with us. We already decided."

Bertholdt furrows his brow. "I'm not sneaking into your dorm."

Ymir rolls her eyes. "School is out, idiot. We're staying at Historia's dad's house, just outside the city. It's like a mansion."

"I'm not sneaking into your dad's house!"

"Oh, please, you don't have to sneak," Historia says. "I could come home with half the army and Rod Reiss wouldn't care. Don't argue, Bertholdt, we already made up the guest room. It's been decided."

He doesn't know if that should comfort him: the fact that they had thought through every outcome of the night and had already prepared for the worst. They don't need to shelter him, he insists, he's perfectly capable of taking care of himself. But they are already dragging him to the city center, where Historia hails down a taxi and shoves Bertholdt inside. 

The house is quiet when they arrive. Only the porch lights are on, but Bertholdt can see that Ymir was not kidding. It is, indeed, a mansion, and quite a mansion at that. Historia leads them around to the side entrance, the gravel drive crunching beneath their feet. They enter the south wing, which is partially detached from the rest of the house, and Historia shows Bertholdt to his room. It is sparsely decorated, but he does not need a lot, especially just for one night. The look Historia gives him when she shows him the room is telling, and despite his hospitality so far, he hopes that he will only be here for one night. 

When she says goodnight, closing the door behind herself, Bertholdt is left to stare listlessly at the walls. He had tried not to get his hopes up tonight. He knew that there was a chance that Reiner might be delayed- a good chance- and he had told himself, over and over, not to expect anything. It was hard enough to coordinate his own meeting with Ymir and Historia, least of all to factor in someone else's variables too. Still, his heart aches, more than it has in a while. After so many years apart, there was a chance for them to see each other again. And yet, here he is, alone.

Bertholdt collapses onto the bed, tears welling up in his eyes. When they spill onto his cheeks, he wipes them away. Maybe it's for the best, after all. One more night alone, and then tomorrow he will head home and begin again. Maybe he can still make his parents proud. 

He goes to bed alone. When the clock strikes midnight, he is still awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering where Reiner is at the stroke of the new year. He falls asleep not long after that. 

Something wakes him in the deep of the night.

His eyes fly open and he jolts up in bed, startled. Glancing around the dark room, he waits to hear something. There is nothing. Bertholdt rubs his eyes and collapses back onto his pillows. It was just a dream then. Or maybe it was nothing at all, and he woke up in a panic out of habit-

Something hits the window.

Bertholdt leaps up, flinging the covers back, and stumbles to his feet. He flicks on the lamp by his bed. Squinting in the sudden light, he approaches the window with caution. He waits for another second, just to make sure that what he heard was real. He waits and- SMACK, there it is. He furrows his brow. Was that a piece of gravel hurled at his window? 

He heaves the window open, ready to rain down on whoever is harassing him at God knows what hour of the night. But the sight below makes him gasp.

"You'll break the window," he cries.

Reiner Braun stares up at him, one hand filled with gravel chunks, the other ready to aim and fire. A grin blooms on his face when Bertholdt appears in the window, but then it falters.

"Bert," he says. "It's me."

"I can see that," Bertholdt exclaims. "But if you keep throwing rocks at this window, then it's going to shatter and I'm going to have to explain to Historia's father what the hell happened and that's not something any of us are looking forward to on New Year's Day."

Reiner drops the gravel in his hands, but he is still smiling. There are bags beneath his eyes, Bertholdt notices, the same as he remembers, and his uniform looks loose, like he's lost some weight. Still, he's alive, he's well, and he's  _here_.

"Alright," Reiner calls, dusting off his hands. "I won't throw any more rocks. But will you let me in?"

He feels a smile blossom across his face. "Of course."  

Bertholdt spent his Christmas on a lonely base in Okinawa, waiting idly for his discharge orders. There was little excitement at the time. Tonight makes up for it. Tonight, he feels like a child again. He leaps down the stairs and races to meet Reiner at the door. When he flings it open to a gentle snowfall, his heart wells up with glee.

"You're really here," Bertholdt exclaims, smiling. He feels tears in his eyes again.

Reiner stands there, flesh and blood, with a grin on his face. "I'm here." 

When he holds his arms out, Bertholdt does not hesitate to rush into them. Their embrace is fierce as they grasp at each other, held together tightly. Bertholdt squeezes his eyes shut. Reiner is warm in his arms, and that is how he knows this is real. This moment that he has been dreaming of for so long has finally come true. They stumble backwards in their embrace, Reiner's feet tripping in the snow, and when they pull apart, their hearts racing, Bertholdt does not let go of Reiner's hand. 

"But how did you know it was my window?" Bertholdt exclaims as they step inside. 

Reiner tosses his bag onto the floor and closes the door, shutting out the snowstorm. "Don't spoil the magic." 

Bertholdt furrows his brow. "...you already came inside and asked Historia, didn't you?"

Reiner grins and wraps himself around Bertholdt's arm. "She didn't have to answer the door! But she didn't seem surprised. I mean, she sent me her address and told me I could stay the night if I made it in time, so I would have been staying here anyways, so-"

Bertholdt cuts him off with another hug, this time wrapping his arms around Reiner's neck and pulling him close. "I'm so glad you're here," he whispers.

Reiner squeezes him back. "I'm sorry I didn't show at the diner. I didn't know if I'd make it the last time I wrote Historia, but I think I could have, if my bus hadn't been delayed in Columbus-"

"It doesn't matter," Bertholdt says. He rests his head on Reiner's and breathes in. "You're here now."

Reiner pulls out of the hug and wraps an arm around Bertholdt's waist. "Come on," he says, heaving his bag over his shoulder. "Show me to our room, soldier."

"Stop it," Bertholdt mutters, smiling. He leads Reiner up the stairs. "I can't believe Historia is letting the likes of you stay at her house."

"She and Ymir are no better than us," Reiner says with a grin. 

Reiner has collapsed on the bed before Bertholdt has even shut the door. When Bertholdt crosses the room to join in, he sits up, shuffling out of his jacket. Bertholdt clambers onto the bed beside him and wraps a woven blanket around his shoulders. Up close, he can see how Reiner has changed. His brow is sterner, his jaw sharper, but when he smiles, the dimples in his cheeks are the same. Bertholdt watches as he tears off his boots and dumps them onto the floor.

"How did you get time off?" he asks. "I don't know anyone who got this kind of leave." 

"Oh, well, I may have pulled in a few favors here and there," Reiner says, grinning. He shuffles to face Bertholdt, one of his legs hanging off the edge of the bed. "I'm a good soldier, Bert. I kiss ass like you wouldn't believe. The other guys are always trying to save face, but everyone already knows who I am, so there's no harm in sucking up to my superiors. Actually, there's no harm at all. It really pays when you ask for something like two weeks leave to visit your dying mother."

Bertholdt's face falls. "What?" 

"She's been sick for a while," Reiner says. He glances down at his hands. "It was the proper thing to come home and see her." 

There has never been any love lost in that relationship, Bertholdt knows. "How is she?" he asks.

Reiner shrugs. "Still dying."

"Reiner," Bertholdt says, furrowing his brow. "You should have stayed with her."

"I wanted to see you," Reiner says. He reaches across and squeezes Bertholdt's hand. "She'll be gone by the time I ship out again, but this is a chance I couldn't pass up. Besides, she told me to get out. She couldn't stand to look at me."

"Reiner," Bertholdt starts, but Reiner squeezes his hand again and shakes his head. 

"It's done," he says, taking his hand away. "I spent years living under her thumb, putting up with all that shit, but you-" he flicks Bertholdt's nose- "I haven't gotten nearly as many years with you."

"Stop," Bertholdt mutters, but he smiles. 

"So, how does it feel to be done, GI Joe?" Reiner exclaims. He cocks his head. "What are you going to do now that you've been discharged? Travel the world? Start a band?"

Bertholdt shakes his head. "I don't know what there is for me to do. My parents want me to come home for a while."

"They're going to fix you up with a good Carolina girl," Reiner says.

"I wouldn't be surprised," Bertholdt mutters, tugging the blanket tighter. "But we'll see where I end up."

"You could end up with me."

Bertholdt looks at him, his shining eyes. "Reiner."

"I'm serious," Reiner says. "I've only got a few months of service left, and then I'm free as a bird. We'll go somewhere nice. Somewhere they don't read the Bible everyday. Pick somewhere."

"I wouldn't know where to go," Bertholdt says softly, smiling.

"What about Chicago?" Reiner exclaims. "They've got stuff in Chicago, haven't they?"

"They've got stuff everywhere," Bertholdt laughs. "And Chicago's much too cold."

"No? Paris, then."

"Too hip."

Reiner raises an eyebrow. "We can be hip."

"Nothing about you is hip."

"Alright," Reiner says, glancing around the room. "San Francisco! I hear San Francisco is quite the city."

"You're making this up."

"I am not!"

"Reiner, we're not going to San Francisco," Bertholdt breathes, smiling.

"Why not? They get an ocean breeze. It's good for the soul."

"The Army has turned you into a free spirit, has it?"

Reiner shrugs. "Maybe. Wouldn't I look swell with flowers in my hair?"

"What hair?" Bertholdt laughs.

Reiner runs a hand over his scalp. "Well, the Army cut isn't really my look. Don't worry, I'll grow it out when we live in California." 

Bertholdt fluffs the blanket out and spreads a bit over Reiner's legs. "Are you still stationed in Germany?" he asks. "How is-"

"I don't want to talk about Germany," Reiner exclaims, grabbing Bertholdt by the jaw. His fingers are warm against Bertholdt's skin, and his eyes glitter in the dim lamplight. "I don't want to think about Germany, not until I have to go back. Not while I'm here with you. I want to talk about  _you_."

"I don't have anything to say," Bertholdt confesses. He unwraps his arms from the blanket and reaches up to take Reiner's hands from his face. "I'm afraid you've set yourself up for disappointment." 

Reiner flops back onto the bed, his legs hanging off the edge, and drags the edges of Bertholdt's blanket with him. "Tell me about Japan," he says, closing his eyes. He spreads his arms out. "What's it like?"

"I thought you didn't want to talk about the army."

"I don't want to talk about _my_ army," Reiner says, opening his eyes. He glances up at Bertholdt. "I'd listen to you talk about anything for days."

He pats the space on the bed next to him. "Lie down with me."

Reiner is different, Bertholdt decides, as he eases down onto the bed, propped up on one elbow to watch the smile on Reiner's face. Reiner rolls over to face him and throws the blanket over both of them.

"What's Japan like?" he asks.

"Different," Bertholdt says. "But not all that different."

The quiet gentility reminds him of home, is what he doesn't say, but he doesn't have to say it. He is sure that Reiner can see the homesickness in his eyes. It has been so long since they have been together beneath the live oak trees. And yet, in this moment, here together, it feels like no time has passed at all, not since those sunset days of their youth.

"Hmm," Reiner says. "Germany was just cold."

"You do want to talk about it," Bertholdt exclaims, a smile breaking out on his face. 

"Oh, I guess," Reiner says with a sigh. He throws his arms over his head and stares the ceiling for a moment in silence. Then he pops upright and leaps off the bed, crossing in a few swift steps to the stereo cabinet on the other side of the room. He crouches to browse the dusty library of records that are shelved in the lower section. "The Reiss family has an interesting taste in music." 

Bertholdt sits up as Reiner pulls a record out and slides it onto the platter. "What are you doing?" he exclaims. "You'll wake up Ymir and Historia." 

"They're not sleeping," Reiner says confidently. He puts the needle on and turns around to face Bertholdt while the record spins in silence. "Come on, dance with me."

"Reiner, it's the middle of the night."

"You know this song," Reiner says. He holds out his hands, wiggling his fingers, and Bertholdt takes them reluctantly. He is whisked onto his feet and pulled close, one of Reiner's hands wrapped firmly on his waist, the other clutching Bertholdt's hand in his grasp. "It's a good one." 

The music spins on with a sweet brass melody, and as the chorus starts to sing, Reiner sways them back and forth, grinning when the name of the song dawns on Bertholdt's face. 

"You always did like Vera Lynn," he mutters. 

"Who doesn't?" Reiner exclaims. "Come on, this can be our song." 

"This is a goodbye song," Bertholdt says as they sway. "I'm not really sure that should be our song..."

"No, listen," Reiner says. "It's about reuniting.  _With love that's true, I'll wait for you_..."

On the next note, he spins Bertholdt out on his arm, sending him stuttering across the floor, and then, as Vera Lynn's voice hits the last line of the chorus, Reiner pulls him back in, catching Bertholdt in his arms, the pair of them stumbling backwards with the momentum of the movement. Bertholdt catches his breath, his face flushed, and stares at Reiner with wonder.

"You learned how to dance," he exclaims.

Reiner grins. "You didn't, I see." 

They sway, their bodies pressed together as the song plays on, but in that moment, there are no words between them. The music moves them across the room, their bare feet padding against the floor in little ditties, and when they are dancing, Bertholdt forgets that they are here, in this small room. He forgets everything that has happened and all the years that they have spent apart. All he knows, as the song draws to an end, is that he is here with Reiner and Reiner is here with him. The music trails off. The room is quiet again, save the spinning of the record on the platter. Bertholdt did not realize that he had closed his eyes, but he does not open them now, caught in the moment. He holds Reiner and just breathes. 

Reiner suddenly pulls out of the embrace. "I almost forgot," he exclaims suddenly.

He bounds over to the bed and collapses onto it, then bends over the side to dig through his bag that sits on the floor. Bertholdt blinks, startled. He rubs his eyes, the time of night suddenly catching up to him, and puts the record away while Reiner searches for something. He pops upright with an exclamation just as Bertholdt is sitting beside him on the edge of the bed, wrapping the blanket around his shoulders again. 

"I found it," Reiner says. He sits to face Bertholdt, revealing the small wrapped parcel clutched in his hands. "I have something for you." 

"What?" Bertholdt asks, frowning. "Reiner, you didn't have to get me anything."

"We were never together this time of year," Reiner says, glancing down at the wrapped box. "But now we are, so..."

He sets the gift gently on Bertholdt's lap. "Happy belated birthday."

Bertholdt gingerly picks up the small box. It's heavier thank it looks. "Reiner, you didn't have to do this."

"It's only a day late," Reiner says. He shifts his position and pulls both of his legs onto the bed, sitting crosslegged. "But that's still too late. Also, merry Christmas. And happy last birthday, too. And the one before that, and, you know, so on." 

Bertholdt carefully undoes the string holding the parcel together, and then slides the brown wrapping paper off to reveal a small, black box. He glances up at Reiner, questioning, but Reiner says nothing, just smiles and gestures for him to open it. Bertholdt cracks open the box and freezes when he sees what is inside. It is nothing fancy. Rather, it's incredibly simple. An unadorned silver band sits inside the box. When Bertholdt holds it up, it glints in the yellow lamplight and he feels his heart swell. 

"Reiner," he hears himself say, a whisper. "This is..."

"You don't have to say anything," Reiner says. 

Tenderly, Bertholdt plucks the ring out of the box. It is so simple, and yet so profound. The silver is smooth and cool beneath his fingers. As he holds it, it becomes warmer against his skin, shining in the low light. 

"It's not a promise," Reiner says. "I'm not asking anything of you. I just want you to remember, always, that I love you. To remember that, next year, no matter where you are, no matter where we end up, I will always love you." 

Bertholdt feels his throat clench and he swallows back a wave of tears. "It's beautiful," he murmurs. "Thank you."

Reiner reaches out, quietly, and takes the ring between his fingers. He holds one of Bertholdt's trembling hands, and as Bertholdt watches, two silent tears spilling from his eyes, Reiner slips the ring onto Bertholdt's finger. It fits perfectly.

"You can wear it home and tell your parents you got hitched in Japan," Reiner says.

Bertholdt laughs, clapping a hand to his mouth. "You ruined the moment," he says, but he is smiling. He is so, so warm. He is too enamored to realize when Reiner leans across and wipes his tears away with his thumb. He jumps at the gentle touch, but when he looks up and meets Reiner's gaze, he is not startled. There is warmth in those eyes, and so much love. So Bertholdt kisses Reiner, leaning forward across the bed to grab him by the shoulders and press their lips together in the way that he has always wanted to: unrestrained, without fear. 

Reiner kisses him back without hesitation. With Bertholdt's hands on his shoulders, he leans forward, reaching out to clasp his fingers around Bertholdt's jaw, like he did earlier, like he has done so many times before, like he has not been able to do in years. He brushes his fingers through the tips of Bertholdt's hair, all the while pushing him back, and back, until he is on his knees on the bed, Bertholdt falling down onto the pillows, both of them laughing, as they tug as buttons and strings, as they kiss, and they never let go.

And when the night falls over them again, pulling them into a deep, restful sleep, as they lie in the silence, tucked into each other's arms, Bertholdt has only one thought.

They are together at last.  


End file.
